Requiem for the Damned
by LordDerrick
Summary: Imprisoned in Azkaban, left alone to suffer a torturous fall, and condemned to die the cold death of the damned, Harry Potter awakens. HP/Multi, Super-powered, Dark
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all, and I make no money from it.**

**A/N: After so many people talked about the way _By the Grace of God _turned out, I decided to listen. For the past few months, I have been crafting the rewrite. What started as simple changes turned out to completely redefine the story. What you see in the next few paragraphs is the beginning of what I call a masterpiece of literary achievement - at least as far as Harry Potter fan fictions are concerned. I beg you to be patient with this; for, what will unfold will make it all worth it. In return, I swear to work hard to update as soon as possible and thrill you with twists and turns like you have never experienced. So, without further ado, I give you...**

**Requiem for the Damned**

_**Chapter One**_

The silence swam around him mockingly. It was almost as if the dank, lonely cell knew who he was and the crimes he had been charge with committing. But that couldn't be true, could it? Brick and stone do not breathe, do not think. They could not know. Then again, in the wizarding world, things are never as they should be.

Wizarding world… He latched onto that thought. Yes, wizard… That's what he was: a wizard. Even the dark cell could not rob him of that; even after ten years, it could not take away his identity. It could not destroy who he was, not permanently.

For the first time in several years, the wretched, pathetic shell of a man remembered who he was. Cold green eyes peered between locks of matted, slimy black hair and stared out between the bars of his cell deep within the walls of Azkaban prison. Every detail returned to him; every moment of agony and torturous betrayal that had led him to ten years of suffering locked behind bars on an isolated island far from civilization. He remembered…

Quirrell. Quirinus Quirrell. His victim.

Wait, that wasn't right. Not a victim. He was the victim. He hadn't murdered Quirrell. The spirit of the Dark Lord had possessed the professor. He was just defending himself from the Dark Lord's attacks. He hadn't meant to…

But no one believed him. They said that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was dead. Dumbledore tried to argue on his behalf, but they didn't want to believe the truth. Their fear clouded their judgment.

And Snape. Professor Snape.

The potions professor had claimed that Quirrell was only trying to stop anyone from taking the Sorceror's Stone, trying to defend from the very darkness that possessed him. That testimony gave the court all they needed to ignore the truth. It gave them the scapegoat they needed to explain the events… the sacrifice for the common good… the sacrifice in the form of one who had already lost so much… it gave them…

Harry Potter. The Boy-who-lived. Him. Now, he was in Azkaban.

_No!_

The air in the cell suddenly thinned and dried. Harry Potter stood, bones cracking and creaking as they were extended after years of disuse. Ragged, torn grey robes fell around him, hanging down to his bare feet. His muscles shouldn't work at all. By now, they should be atrophied. He should at least feel pain, discomfort. He felt nothing.

Nothing but rage.

Harry Potter raised his hands in front of his face. The dim twilight that leaked into his cell outlined the silhouette of scabbed, filthy skin. He flexed his fingers. They responded with slow, rhythmic movements that were stiff but effective. He stretched the fingers apart as far they would go then reached deep down inside himself to the shell that he had hidden within the past ten years. With a force of will he shoved that shell to the forefront, against the walls of his mind, and watched as it shattered. As it broke, blue-white lightening flickered between his fingertips, sizzling as it arced under his control.

No, he would not be a prisoner. He had secrets, secrets buried so deep that no one at Hogwarts ever knew, secrets so deep that he had forgotten, secrets that would tear the wizarding world apart.

Harry thrust his hand forward. Surges of lightening exploded from his hands and shattered the cell's barred door in a burst of shrieking metal. He smiled and stepped between the smoldering ruins.

_Free… Nothing can hold me._

No physical change made Harry stand out from how he looked only a few moments earlier. Nothing marked the incredible power he harnessed to destroy the door. Only the smell of melted metal and the hiss of escaping heat sizzling behind him gave any sign as to what had happened.

_Let them come._

He stood in the empty corridor and waited. He did not try to flee as most escaping a prison might. It was not his intention to escape. Escape meant hiding. It meant running. He would not run. The wizarding world would face him. They would face what they had made him into, and they would fear him.

Running was not an option.

_Drip… Drip…_

Water. It was the only noise. Nothing else dared to make a sound. The eerie silence was enough to grate on the nerves of even the most patient, and stoic of people, but Harry acted as though he did not notice the soft echo tapping against brick and stone as it puddled in some moldy, darkened corner. That was the furthest thing from the truth. He noticed it acutely.

He reveled in it.

Silence was his comfort. It was the blanket he wrapped himself in during those moments when the reality of his situation descended on him. Now, it was a reminder that he did not need people to survive. He did not have to rely on others to be there when he fell. He had learned young that even the most well meaning could do him harm. After all, the well meaning had garnered him a place in Azkaban without even realizing their error until too late.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his mind and body, a draining that reached down to the core of his soul and tugged at the hopelessness hidden there. He smiled. His captors approached.

Raising a hand and taking a step to widen his feet, Harry reached out to the soft thrum of morbid power that permeated the corridor and seized with every ounce of will he possessed.

The first dementor glided around the corner, its tattered black robes billowing ominously around it. A groaning welled from within the shadowy hood and traveled the space between it and Harry, striking the Boy-who-lived with the cold chill of its soul-reaping power. Its bony, skeletal hands stretched out to grab him, but Harry was prepared.

White, hot lightening burst from his hands and ploughed into the dementor. Within the magic he poured every ounce of hatred and anger that had been building since he was a small child. Every memory of the Dursleys torturing him and every recollection of hours spent whimpering in a cold Azkaban cell boiled to a frothing roll and charged out of him, unleashing torrents of magical energy stronger than any that had visited Azkaban since its construction.

The bolts arced and bounced across the creature's body. The Dementor threw back what had to be its head and let forth a bloodcurdling scream that spread through the prison. But Harry was not done. He strode forward and grabbed the creature on each shoulder and pulled with every bit of strength he could muster. The Dementor struggled to regain control, to dislodge itself from the beast that grabbed it. Harry would not budge; he would not be denied. His eyes widened in a crazed madness, and he yelled, ripping his vocal cords as they were activated for the first time in almost a decade. It did not matter, because the sound that came from him was not of this world or the next. It existed only in a time and place of his making, of his creation, and from that creation he brought forth his strength.

A great tearing noise, wet and squishing, joined in his screams and in a burst of red-orange flames, Harry Potter ripped apart the Dementor with his bare hands. The Dementor corpse crumbled and faded in the flames.

Two aurors came around the corner just as Harry dropped the now empty Dementor robes. Shocked rippled across their features as they looked from the ruined robes and the Boy-who-lived. A golden light emanated from his skin as he stepped forward in long, quick strides as if neither the incarceration nor the exuberant amount of magic he had just used had affected him in the slightest.

The aurors brandished their wands, signaled for backup, and hurled spells at Harry. Both were advanced in their career. They were highly trained professionals with experience in taking down even the strongest of dark wizards, save for the Dark Lord himself. Both had seen action against inner-circle deatheaters. They could best most in single-handed combat. But this foe was different, and they knew it the second their eyes met his. Even in the heat of the battle they could not focus on his eyes, unable to bare the raging fire within them.

Harry saw the spells before they were coming. He could see the intent as the magic raced down the wand and knew how to stop them. They were not strong enough to stand against him. As the spells left the tips of the wands, he forced his will forward as if projecting it into a solid shield. The spells collided with it, and he felt them tugging at his awareness, trying to overpower the defense he had prepared, but they were weak compared to him. He ripped through the strands of errant magic like they were fireworks sent of by muggle children. They dissipated in showers of flashes that exploded around him as he walked forward.

The aurors panicked and dived. Neither had ever heard of magic like that.

Harry reached forward with his arms as the aurors tried to run and tightened his fist. He pulled the fist back towards him, and the aurors were yanked hard onto their backs. He held out a single hand, and their wands jumped into it.

Both aurors cringed, curled into a ball, and closed their eyes, awaiting the pain of their death, praying that God would protect their families from such a monster as the one before them. However, all they felt as Harry Potter walked by were the prickles of splintered wood as the remains of their wands rained down. After several endless minutes, when they finally dared to look up, Harry Potter was gone.

They did not know him. Like every other wizard or witch in the magical world, they had never taken the time to get beyond the rumors that defined the public image of the Boy-Who-Lived. In truth, he had never let them. He did not want to be known. He wanted to hide away from the world, to shed the burden they thrust on him. He wanted to be normal. To be human.

Human. A joke.

Humans could not dream to comprehend him. They were narrowed minded and empty. They lacked purpose other than twisted purposes that fulfilled their sickest base desires. His heart led him to other things, nobler things. And what had that got him?

Bound. He had been bound for his efforts.

His mind played over that word. Bound. Why had he not known before now? This power he held was so much a part of him, how could he have ignored it for twenty one years? He knew the answer immediately. The thing that had kept it from him had been the greatest of chains. And now he remembered every detail.

Clearly, he saw in his memories an old man towering over him, blue eyes twinkling with mirth and an aura of power pouring off aged, wrinkled skin. He saw the sad smile, the long, slender wand, and the spell that caused magic to leap from it. Then he felt the chains pulling around him; though, they were not chains that one could see from the outside. They pulled from within him; they constricted around his heart. His infant body let out a scream, and suddenly, a part of him disappeared, blinked out as if it never existed.

Again, the old man smiled the sad smile. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, but this is for the best. The wizarding world will never be ready for you. There are much larger destinies that you must fulfill."

Dumbledore. He had done this. All of this was because Dumbledore had taken from him his rightful legacy. He knew the truth now. The bonds were gone, and he knew his heritage; the magic had seen to that. Dumbledore's shadow games would be to no avail.

Harry Potter moved down the now empty corridors of Azkaban. Aurors hid in fear from his wrath while dementors fled from him on sight. He knew that some of his adversaries were preparing a counter-strike to keep him here, but he would not be stopped… Never again. None would ever raise a wand against him and prevail. He would crush his enemies with the iron grip of his will and remake the wizarding world as he saw fit, under his terms. His imprisonment would never be allowed to happen to another.

Beneath his feet, the old world would burn. From the ashes, he would raise his Eden.

Harry moved from floor to floor unopposed. He came to stairwells and took each step carefully, slowly. Azkaban was ancient. Once, it had been a fortress used by one of the darkest wizards to ever exist. From within the towering walls of Azkaban, darkness had once spread the world through the world so thoroughly that it still resonated in the minds of purebloods today, thousands of years later. His eyes were half-closed as he took in the power. He did not see where he was going, but the fortress spoke to him, guiding his feet along a safe path.

A lesser man might have been dominated by the power. He might have been corrupted like the dementors had been so many centuries ago when they had been soldiers under the ancient dark lord. Once, they had been great warriors; now, they were but hungry, mindless wraiths, little more than wisps of what they once were, all because a leader became too power hungry. All because their greed drove them to share in that power.

No, that would not happen to him. He did not crave power. He did not need to. Power was only a scale created by mortals. His understanding went beyond that. He contained the same amount of inherent power others did, but he knew things about magic that those others did not, things that set him leagues above them. He knew that power was relative. It did not matter how much a being had if they did not have the will to use it. And there was one thing Harry Potter had, he had the will, and he lacked the restraints to hold back his will. He did not have a mind full of predetermined notions, notions like those that Dumbledore had forced on his younger self. No, he knew what he was capable of doing.

Anything.

Finally, he reached Azkaban's entrance hall. There, amidst the great black marble columns and dark iron battlements, he encountered their resistance, their last ditch attempt to contain him. This would be the deciding moment. Now, he would determine his future. He looked out at the group of armored aurors standing between him and the door to Azkaban prison, the last prison he would ever enter, and he knew without a doubt that they were little better than the chains they tried to bind him with. Like those chains, they would not last.

Harry Potter held out his hand. The aurors, almost thirty strong, tensed. They raised their wands. One of the aurors at the forefront of the group straightened and called out. "Prisoner Potter, this is your only warning. Lie down on the ground with your hands on your head, or we will use lethal force to subdue you."

Harry tilted his head and studied the wizard. An auror captain, no doubt a veteran of wizarding battles. The scars he wore told Harry that much. "No," Harry replied simply.

The word was said normal, but it came out of Harry and increased in strength to the point that when it reached the aurors, they clutched their hands to their ears reflexively. Harry's fingers curled inward, and the large dark iron doors behind the aurors groaned and twisted before they were wrested from their hinges and brought soaring into the crowd of stunned aurors. The aurors scattered like ants beneath the massive doors, just barely managing to escape as the iron plates crashed to the floor.

Harry stepped forward. He made it half-way to the doorway before the first spell was fired. It crumbled into nothingness before it reached him. Ten followed, then twenty, and then all thirty wizards fired at once. All their spells stopped before they hit him, merely fading into non-existence. Harry continued to walk forward until he reached the doorway. There he stopped, turned, and looked back. He raised a hand once more and the iron doors lifted from the floor, straightened, and folded back in place, magically reattaching to the hinges. The doors closed with a bang that shook the fortress.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The aurors banged on the other side of the doors. Their fists and spells rattled the iron. Again, Harry reached out to the ambient magics flowing through Azkaban in raging currents. Unlike before, he did not take just a bit to do his task. No. This time he took it all. He took it all and forced it in on itself.

Everything stopped. Time stood still for just an instant, but in that instant the fabrics of reality bent. The earth rumbled. The North Sea stirred. The wind raged. Nature itself screamed against him.

The Boy-Who-Lived did not give in to the power. He braced his feet and stood against it. Then, with an agonizing scream, he pulled down the ancient wards surrounding the fortress-prison. The entire castle shifted, buckled, then exploded outward in a torrent of fire that shook the earth for miles around.

Amidst it all, the young wizard watched. He did not smile. He did not frown. No tear dropped for the dying and dead.

The deafening explosion and the loud crackling of fire played the only requiem the burning souls would receive. A requiem for the damned.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk at the Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The year was beginning in a month and he still had a great deal to do. Most of his summer had already been devoted to tracing Voldemort through his new hiding spots inside the lush forests of the Indus Valley. Many villagers had reported seeing a terrible spirit roaming the valley and possessing members of their families. More than one villager had been found left for dead, only a dry husk of a corpse remaining as the Dark Lord moved on to its next victim.

Dumbledore sighed and held his head in his hands, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. At 120 years, Dumbledore had seen more than most and dealt with more darkness than almost anyone alive. It was he who had contested Gellert Grindelwald's reign of terror, and it was he who had led the movement to resist the machinations of Lord Voldemort. Now, it was he who was forced again to deal with the rising tide that could only result in the Dark Lord's rebirth.

He knew that Voldemort was looking for something, a way to regain a body, and he knew that Voldemort had to be getting closer. The search had led the Dark Lord from Albania, through most of Eastern Europe, across the deserts of the Middle East, and finally to the birthplace of wizarding magic. Unfortunately, Dumbledore had no idea what, exactly, Voldemort could find there. And that, if anything, was the most terrifying aspect.

The old professor sighed and stroked his long silver beard. Still, it fell on him to ensure that the Dark Lord did not return. It was the only way left to contain Voldemort. If he were to regain his body, then the wizarding world would be facing the unrestricted power of a virtual immortal. The prophecy clearly linked Voldemort with Harry Potter, the boy he had failed to protect. Only Harry could kill him. But now the child rotted in Azkaban, most likely powerless and insane, while Dumbledore sat idly by, unable to act. His hands were tied. The courts had made their decision despite his fervent protests, and he could not oppose the courts. To do so would deny the authority of the government, and that could have any worse effects on the world than Lord Voldemort.

A soft knock on his office door brought him from his musings.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and sat up. He might be old and tired, but people still looked to him. He had to project the image of strength and courage. He was a rallying sign for the wizarding world in a time that was increasingly dark and horrible. It was a darkness that had very little to do with the stain of Lord Voldemort.

"McGonagall, Headmaster," one of the many portraits littering his wall whispered.

Dumbledore smiled and nodded in thanks. "Please, come in, Professor McGonagall."

The door creaked open and a woman with pulled back hair and overly stern eyes entered. She was shaking her head. "One day I will discover how you always know who is on the other side of this door, Albus."

The Headmaster smiled. "I have already told you more than once, my dear professor. It is magic." He stole a quick wink at the portrait that had spoken, but when McGonagall looked up at him, she saw only the ever-present twinkle glistening behind half-moon spectacles and the smile of a very amused old man.

She huffed and sat down. "Yes, yes, so you have said. Now, listen, I have something important to discuss. The Weasley twins-"

"-have my full confidence that they will make wonderful teachers."

McGonagall let out an exasperated sighed. "Albus, I know you have a soft spot for the Weasley family, but you can't expect those two to keep their act together long enough to create an effective learning environment. They will tear down the school brick by brick!"

Dumbledore held up his hand. "Yes, and I think-"

A buzzing from the fireplace interrupted his reply. Green flames spurred to life atop the pit. Almost instantly, a face formed in the flames. "Dumbledore!" the face yelled.

The Headmaster stared back at the excited face of the Minister of Magic and knew his night was about to get a lot busier than addressing the complaints of his dedicated deputy headmistress.

"Yes, Cornelius. I am here with Professor McGonagall. We were just discussing Fred and George Weasley. You know, they are the twin sons of Arthur Weasley, the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"I don't have time to talk about that, Dumbledore!" Cornelius Fudge blustered. "Were in a crisis, man! There's a massive security breach at Azkaban! The DMLE is getting distress calls left and right!"

Dumbledore's mood turned very somber, very suddenly. He stood and walked over to the fireplace with speed a man his age should not normally possess. "Which prisoner?"

Fudge gulped, his eyes panicked and wide. "Harry Potter!"

The Headmaster needed no more encouragement. He stepped into the flame, snuffing out the Minister's face, and said, "Minister's Office," activating one of the few floo locations connected to the Minister of Magic's personal fireplace.

In less than a second, he stood before a shaking and panicking Minister of Magic. "What happened?"

"Fire and flames," Fudge replied, his eyes wide. He shook his head slowly. "I-I don't understand. One moment the warden and I were talking, the next moment he screamed and his head was covered in flame. Not floo flames but real flames! Orange and blue. Suddenly, the floo just shut down and refused to reconnect."

Dumbledore did not answer at first. When dealing with politicians, he felt it best to carefully organize his words in order to cushion the blow of bad news. He sighed, buying time; for, he could not put things together in a soft presentation.

Finally, he placed a hand on the man's shoulder, swallowed, and lowered his gaze. "Azkaban has fallen."

* * *

**A/N: This is the beginning.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**A/N: Thank you for the responses. To clarify, I will be continuing By the Grace of God. This is just a rewrite with a different plot. Be advised, I did not edit because I wanted to post this tonight. I will edit later. Comment if you see something I need to change. Thanks.**

"_One could say that I knew Harry Potter intimately. One would be more accurate in saying that I knew him like a person knows an enemy. Both statements would be correct; for, only Harry Potter could have been both my dearest friend and my most hated enemy. Only someone who embodies both the light and the dark of our world can achieve that kind of balance."_

_Lord Hadrian Conners, __The Rightful King_

**Chapter Two**

Time stopped.

It did not slow down. It stopped.

Completely.

The flames hung in the air unmoving, shapes of billowing orange clouds of intense heat. Stone Race in every direction. Magic plowed outward from the prison fortress in waves. All of it sat suspended in time.

Harry watched. Despite the lack of passing time, he still saw. He comprehended. He dreamed. He fathomed.

The wizarding world stood on the precipice of destruction. Its only claim to legitimacy rested in the fact that purebloods supported it, twisting it to extensions of their prejudices and bigotry. The flame that burned Azkaban would spread to their existence. His hand would hold over them the sword of justice and it would fall without exception. They would burn. Every last one of them.

Time did not pass, but that did not matter to Harry Potter. He smiled and blinked away, shredding the fabric of existence to individual strands, forever ripping a hole in the Weave of Existence. Then, as carefully as he had altered time and space, the magic in his wake repaired it, leaving no evidence that he had come and gone.

Once more the flames rolled forth and brought about the destruction of hundreds of wizards and witches.

The single greatest magical calamity in the Modern Age.

* * *

Harry landed on his knees, doubled over, and gasping for breath as he clutched his stomach. Vomit came up in sudden spasms, spewing forth from his mouth to mix with the sand beach he had come to rest upon.

His world spun. The Sun bore down on his back, baking his skin and clothes with waves of painful warmth. The heat blistered, only increasing the nausea that tore through his stomach. He did not hear the waves crashing against the beach or the call of seagulls overhead. If he had, he might have found a moment of serenity to calm his nerves.

But there was no calming Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived knew exactly what he had just done. The plan had been forming in his dreams for years. Ten long years. During those years he had been bound in the dungeons of Azkaban, plagued by the raping of the Dementors' feedings, and left to the mercy of miserable darkness. From the blackness his hatred had grown, and with it, his plan blossomed.

The moment of vengeance was nigh. The world screamed at the terror he had wrought. But did he feel victorious? Did he triumph? No. He wept and wretched like an innocent child.

Of course, at the heart of things, that is what Harry Potter was until that night. They had accused him of murder, of taking the life of another, but until that night he had never lifted his hand against another without reason. Even then, he had only fought once. The Dursleys beat him over and over again. They starved him. The used him. Not once did he cry out against them. Not once did he fight back. He took it all, knowing that he must shoulder a burden but unaware of what it could be.

It was not until that day – that fateful day – that he chose to stand his ground against the forces of evil and push against it. He took upon himself the mantle of stalwart guardian and fought the Dark Lord Voldemort so that the world would not face another war at the hand of the demon. His thanks? Condemnation. Prison. Hell.

_But I killed them, _he thought. _I killed them all._ And he had. The ones who imprisoned him, no matter their intention to uphold the law, suffered and died in the wall of fire that was Harry Potter's power. They died screaming, just as he had a thousand times over ten years. Yet, here he was. Alive. They were dead.

He made it out and killed every last one of them, no judgment for crime or merit, just death. He vomited again, this time spewing his bowels into the ocean as well. He was a monster.

"Who are you?"

Harry froze. The sound of the voice chilled him. It was the high pitch of a little girl. He took a breath, steadying himself and managing to calm the nerves that wracked him. His head turned.

The girl gasped and took a step back. Her blue eyes widened in horrified shock. Locks of blonde hair spiraled around her oval shaped face. Her pink sundress clung to her in the wind. She couldn't have been older than ten or eleven. The same age he had been when he learned about magic. He wondered.

"I am hurt," he whispered, his voice hoarse from a decade of disuse. His eyes met the girls. They only shared a gaze for a moment, but as he stared with the eyes of unfeeling ice, her open, horrified eyes saw the picture of wounded animal. Her gaze softened, then brimmed with worry and the slight haze of tears. Caring.

"What's wrong?" she asked, taking a tentative few steps toward him.

He looked away, unable to look upon the emotion she exuded.

"I have been wounded. A terrible curse."

Her eyes got even wider. "You know magic?"

Harry nodded, eyes cast the ground.

"I'm a witch!" she declared proudly. "My daddy says I will be the greatest witch to ever live!"

Ah, the naivety of use. It was stolen from him. Why should she have it?

"Can you take me to him?" Harry asked slowly. He sat up a little, testing to make sure his hands were no longer needed to ease the discomfort in his stomach. Adrenaline pumping in anticipation, he felt nothing.

The girl smiled and nodded. "Daddy will help you."

She reached over, took his hand in hers, and led her towards a cottage on the hill.

* * *

The cottage was a light blue. A white picket fence surrounded the cottage. A thin lawn emerged sparsely from the sand in random patches of green. The sound and smell of the sea was pungent. There didn't appear to be much around other than sand and ocean.

An island.

"Daddy!" the girl called as they stepped through the front door. She walked quicker than Harry. He barely stumbled inside. When he did, he collapsed against the wall, grasping desperately at the doorframe and a chair to stay standing.

The girl and father came into the room a moment later. The father was tall. His black hair fell down his shoulders in a way that mimicked the girl's, even though the colors did not match. When he looked at Harry, it was with blue eyes that matched the intense caring in the girl's.

"My God," the man whispered.

Harry tried to reply, but he passed out before any words could pass his lips. The floor just looked so inviting.

* * *

Harry woke hours later to the feeling of cool water against his forehead. He did not open his eyes at first. Just the feeling of cool water sent shivers of forgotten pleasure through him. So simple. So soothing. The feeling of a soft mattress and clean sheets only added to that pleasure.

Had he forgotten so easily the simple things that brought peace to others? Was his soul so twisted that he could not even remember the sweet taste of compassion when freely given? _My life has gotten so complicated. It was so long ago when I knew happiness or peace. The fires in Gryffindor Common Room and the loaded feasts in the Great Hall were just brief respites in my misery. I am condemned to suffer and cause suffering._

Finally, he opened his eyes. Yellow rays of natural light spilled in from large windows that stretched the sky blue room. He lay on a wood-frame bed. White sheets dazzled against the light. A woman, probably nineteen or twenty, sat at the edge of the bed. She gently stroked his forehead with a damp cloth.

"Where am I?" he muttered.

The girl smiled at him. He face was delicate and beautiful. He knew few other words to describe. The second his eyes rested on her high cheekbones and soft jawline, he did not want to look away. He wasn't sure if he could. She had blonde hair and blue eyes like the girl from the beach.

"You're awake," she said. Her voice sang to his years.

"Where am I?" he asked again, for no other reason than to cover the fact he had no clue what else to say.

The young woman shrugged. "Our island. It doesn't have a name. Daddy just brought use here one day, and we have been here ever since. Mother says we are in the Pacific Ocean, though."

The fog that kept his brain from working cleared a little.

"You do not leave?"

Her smile deepened. Something flashed in her blue eyes, but it was not malicious. It was a flicker of emotion, for sure, but it reminded Harry of something pure. "Of course we leave, silly. Though we do not go often. Mother and Daddy have built their lives here, but I shall one day join my older sister in the larger world."

Something crossed his mind, a thing the girl at the beach had asked. "You are a witch?"

"I am," she said. "I take it that you are a wizard?"

He shook his head. "Not for a long time."

She turned suddenly sad. "But you are so young." She sighed quietly. "I am Elisabeth. What his your name not-wizard?"

"I am-" but he was saved from answering by the opening of the bedroom door.

The dark haired man entered. Immediately, Harry became alert. His sense flared. The man was powerful. _How did I not feel him before? _Harry wondered. _He is practically glowing. _ In his mind, the man burned like a star.

Desperately, Harry called on magic and focused his will into an attack. The man never faltered. He continued forward to the bed, smile never leaving his face, and laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. The magic surrounding the Boy-Who-Lived dissipated as if it had never existed.

_But that's not possible! _Harry screamed in his head. Warning signals started going off. No one could just stop energy. It wasn't possible. It had to bee changed or routed. It could not just go away. But he felt the gaping emptiness in its wake. That violated every law of both magic and physics. Energy never disappeared!

The man simply smiled peacefully and said, "Welcome to my island, Harry Potter. I am the Sage."

* * *

A curse flew at Harry, a concentrated burst if focused energy carrying the intent of the caster to harm the target. Harry rolled and dodged.

"You are getting slower Harry."

A growled escaped Harry's lips. He threw himself to the ground, rolled, and came up on his feet. Power poured from his hands and attempted to wrap itself around the imposing figure of the man Harry had come to know as the Sage.

The older wizard – if that was, in fact, what the man was – did not try to move. He simply raised his hand, twirled his fingers, and the power bent apart and ended. To follow, he stepped forward, stomped his foot against the floor, and sent ripples across the wooden floor, making boards buckle and rise underneath Harry's feet.

The Boy-Who-Lived momentarily lost balance. The Sage struck again, this time sending a wave of freezing wind. Stinging sensations spread over his skin and his legs were ripped from the floor. He hit the now calm floor with a resounding thud.

"That looked painful. Giving up so easy, boy?"

Harry blinked the pain and disorientation away. The Sage was powerful. In the three weeks since he had come to the island by some chance of fate and magic, Harry had seen power like he never imagined existed, power that dwarfed his feats on Azkaban Island. Simply put, the man who dueled him now was terrifying.

"Get up!" thundered the terrifying voice of the Sage. The words that came out sounded English, but Harry knew they weren't. They were spoken in the True Tongue, the voice of the Ancient Gods.

His legs did not have a choice. They responded simply to the command of power. Next thing he knew, Harry was on his feet, groaning but on his feet. He readied himself again, calling on more magic than he had ever contained, even at the events that had led to his escape from Azkaban. It responded to him like armor, draping him against the overwhelming presence of the Sage.

Harry wanted to stop. Harry always wanted to stop. But the Sage knew him. He had revealed to Harry the truth of what he had done without Harry prompting details. And now he was trapped here on this island deep in the Pacific, miserable and prisoner again.

"You are here because you ripped through time and space, Harry Potter." The energy around the Sage crackled, causing the man to swell in physical size. His will tested Harry's shields gingerly. "You destroyed the lives of hundreds, sent them into the fiery death, and contemplated doing the same to my innocent daughter. I should rip your heart from your body and serve it as sacrifice to the gods, but I do not. Do you know why?"

Harry shook his head. The magic built around him. He could feel the Sage beginning to wrap tendrils of power around his defenses and begin to squeeze. He forced his will outward, reinforcing the shields with bits of his own strength, reaching deep into the core that powered his inner magic.

In a word, it was not enough.

"I spare you because I see the darkness and will harness it. You will not be purged. You will be forged. I will draw forth from you your humanity and crush it until you cannot be bent again. In the end, you will beg for me to stop. You will beg for me to free you, but I will not. Not until you are ready. Then and only then will you return to the world you left. And with it, you will carry the flames of judgment; you will carry the justice of the heavens and live as Harbinger for the desolation. You shall play the Requim and the damned will sing. The world will be remade."

As the Sage spoke, the last of Harry's magic was torn away. The paltry defenses his mortal magic could summon crushed inward and pinned Harry's arms to his side. The Sage turned his wrist and Harry was pulled through to air and deposited at the older man's feet.

The Sage kneeled before Harry, robes of silver and black billowing in a wind that did not exist. His blue eyes were cold as they looked at Harry. "You are mine, and you are broken. My daughter spoke well when she called you not-wizard." He took Harry's right hand in his own and twisted. The bones popped and cracked. Harry screamed. "You will never hold a wand again."

Yes, cold blue eyes. Cold that promised pain.

* * *

Six month passed. Harry died three times.

* * *

A year came and went. The wizarding world shook off the destruction of Azkaban. Britain began to forget Harry Potter. The complacency of wizards was once again shadowed the threat that was posed against them. They fell into old patterns of prejudices and in-fighting. They forgot the unity they showed in the face of adversity.

Harry died twice more.

* * *

The phoenix dies and rises from ashes in the flames of sacred magic. So it was that Harry Potter rose from the ashes of his corpse. On five occasions, Harry Potter died and came back. Five times he stood before the Sage and proclaimed that he had been set free. The chains were gone.

Harry died once more.

* * *

He was twenty-three.

He walked on the sand of a beach and watched the waves come up to his feet. The cold water tickled his toes. The khaki pants he wore were rolled almost to his knees. A loose, white shirt, unbuttoned halfway down, exposed a muscled chest and the top of a muscled stomach. A dark tan colored his skin. His hair was cut short. The black-rimmed glasses were gone. His green eyes shined.

A tall, petite blonde with long, delicate arms and legs walked next to him. She wore a soft blue dress with thin stripes on her shoulders. She, too, wore no shoes. Her eyes were almost on level with Harry's, but she still needed to look-up slightly when she spoke to him. They held hands.

"Daddy says you will be going soon, Harry."

Harry nodded. He looked from the ocean to the sand. He did not been warm blue gaze so different from her father's. "Yes."

She stopped, pulling on his hand.

He turned towards her. Still, he did not look up.

"Look at me, Harry."

He did. His green eyes – eyes that had seen death five times – looked at her. Few other good stand the power of that gaze. It did not even faze the daughter of the Sage. Her own power probably stood over even Harry's. Maybe.

"You will grow apart from me."

Harry shook his head. In an instant, she was in his arms. He held her tightly. His voice whispered in her ear, "I can never leave you."

The warmth breath of her words tickled his neck as she spoke. "You have no choice."

He did not argued. He cried. Misery was his curse.

* * *

The Sage took Harry's head in his hands and placed a kiss on the young man's forehead, sealing in the blessing of the Ancient Gods. Then, he took Harry's hand, joined it with his daughters, and covered them with both of his own.

"Return to us, Harry Potter, and I will judge you complete. Return and I will allow you your love."

Harry nodded once. "It is time." He said it with love, but all three knew the truth. Harry Potter would never return.

* * *

The hum of activity in Gringotts Bank was as loud as it ever was on the week prior to Hogwarts's start of term. School children and their parents ran about in a busy rush to get last minute shopping done. These were both the average citizens of wizarding society and the upper echelons of the pureblood hierarchy. Even the muggleborns and their muggle parents were here.

The goblins fixed every human, big or small, important or dreg, with the same steely, superior glare. They tolerated humans. Nothing more. Today was just another day.

Until the Great Doors shook.

The massive iron doors that had stood as guardians against wizards, fae, and dwarves alike, shook and flew open with all the might the fist of a god might possess. The bank stopped. Every person and being ceased whatever activity they were doing and stared.

A single person with jet black, wide green eyes, and a lightening bolt scar upon his forehead entered. He carried no wand and wore robes of silver and black. Upon his finger, he wore a ring, and upon that ring rested a crest. Every eye saw and ogled. Only a few knew what it meant.

A single goblin came forward.

"Your name," the goblin said with typical goblin spite.

"Harry Potter."

Almost everyone gasped. Some drew their wands. Harry paid them no mind.

"You wear a ring. What do you claim?" the goblin asked, his voice even viler than before.

"I am Harry Potter." He took a step. "I am the soul of the first king. I am the vicar of the ancient blood. I hold the key to the eternal wall. I come to claim my crown."

* * *

Orian Throathammer was not a normal goblin, at least not by wizard standards. He stood almost seven feet tall and weighed somewhere upwards of 350 hundred pounds. He was built solidly, with little fat and mounds of muscles. Most goblins, at least the ones seen by wizards, were short stumpy characters with the uncanny ability to leer a human into fits of worry and anxiety. Other than their menacing appearances, they were generally harmless.

Orian Throathammer was not harmless. The thick blanket of rippling muscle coupled with the heavy broadsword strapped to his back proved that much. Include that his name had been earned in the triumph of many battles during which puny humans and elves alike were crushed beneath the hammer that was his strength, and it was easy to see why him and his kind stayed out of the limelight of wizarding society. Wizards would be too terrified to let true goblins interact with them. There would be wars, wars his nation could sorely afford.

Once, long ago, the wizards had tried to impose laws on the lesser goblin-folk. The lesser ones had rebelled and fought hard against the wizards to win their freedoms. The bank Gringotts had been created as an attempted peace treaty by the wizards, but the Lords of Goblin-folk refused to accept the wizards' restitution. They demanded a means of permanently securing the lesser goblins from the corrupt wizard government.

After many long days and nights, a contract could not be reached, and the two races descended into war once more, a war that would be remembered differently by each side. In the end, after the blood-shed threatened the survivability of both races, a third party had to intervene, a party led by the greatest of mortals, the half-fae Merlin.

Merlin stormed the goblin stronghold that housed the High Lords and beat them into submission. By goblin law, Merlin, being part fae and therefore one of the Others, had rightfully challenged the High Lords for rule of the Goblin Nation and won. Noble and proud, the goblin lords submitted themselves to the rule of Merlin and his descendents until one could challenge and overthrow him.

After seizing the authority of the Goblin Nation, Merlin schemed his way through the ranks of the magical world and took their government into his own hands. In the end, all families recognized him as the proper ruler of magical Britain, Ireland, and France. None attempted to contest him.

So Merlin built the Chair of the Rightful and crowned himself king in order to stop the wars between the wizarding world and the Goblin Nation. For many years the peace lasted, and many of the archmage's descendents ruled with honor and fairness that rivaled the legendary rulers of both races. For a time, none came against the House of Emrys.

But as with all good things, the peace came to an end. Argois II, great-great-great-grandson of Merlin died in the year 1565, and no heir could be found. The crown dissolved into a disputed title that none of any race could rightfully claim. Before long, after a long string of pitiful rulers, the races began to war again. The wizards tried to force their will on the lesser goblins, and the lesser goblins fought against the control of the wizards.

In the end, it had been him, Orian Throathammer, who had driven the wizards away with the unleashed fury of the goblin hordes. Now, he stood guardian over the Nation, waiting patiently until the goblins would need defending from wizards once more. He would be ready for that time. If need arose, he would be ready to kill and feast on the carcasses of the dead until every last wizard again feared the sight of goblin-kind.

"_Hem… Hem…"_

Orian turned on his heel, his face a mask of emotionless calm. The plate body armor he wore clang as he spun. The black goblin steel remained unscratched despite the centuries of battle it had seen. The fire from the hearth in the small room reflected against the metal, making it glow with the image of burning fire.

The woman in the doorway was skinny. Most humans were skinny by goblin ideals, but she was extremely so, petite was the word humans used. She wore her brunette hair tied into a bun. Thinly rimmed glasses sat on her shapely nose but did not hide the bright surprise in her blue eyes or the admiration she clearly felt for the Goblin Lord. Her high cheekbones and smooth, angular jaw flexed and her full lips turned upwards in a small smile as he acknowledged her, a smile that made even the hardened warrior soften.

It was out of place in the deep caverns of the goblins' world.

She bowed deeply; the pantsuit and blouse she wore moved perfectly with her figure, as if the fabric curved around the shape of her body like water.

"My Lord Orian," she said, her voice ringing in melodiously softness. "I bring news."

Orian nodded and growled. "I hope it was worth you disturbing my day, Miranda. I have little free time."

She bowed again. "I assure you, Dreadlord, I would not have brought this to you under any other circumstances but during that time which is most private."

"Speak your news, girl," he barked, his patience wearing thin. "Humans, even you, bother me when it is this early in the morning."

The woman, Miranda, smiled. She knew better than that. Lord Orian adored her more than he favored most goblins save his mate. "The beacon has been lit, my lord."

Out of all the things Miranda could have said, this was the last thing the Goblin Lord expected. He cleared his voice, unable to speak for just a moment, and said, "Be careful with what you say. Are you sure your human eyes have not misinterpreted what they actually saw?"

Miranda shook her head, still smiling. "No, my lord. Even now the Ways of the King are being lit."

"By whose order?" Orian snapped. Who would dare order such a thing without his approval? If this turned out to be a hoax then thousands of goblins would have to be told that their hopes were in vain, that they still had to hide in their secret cavernous world beneath the surface. The Moridunum Beacon was created by Merlin himself as a way of identifying his power so that none could take his form and steal the throne. If it were lit, it meant that the power of Merlin had been used and one of his blood still lived.

An heir to the throne.

"None, my lord. The Ways are being lit without an original source. They are springing to life as if touched by magic."

Orian frowned. Something inside him twisted and flopped, desperately trying to be released. But dare he release such thoughts? Dare he hope for that which should never have taken place?

"And the beacon?"

Miranda nodded. "Come and see for yourself, my lord."

Normally, Orian would have been angry for the human's brashness at daring to order him, but his anger could not swell right then, not at a moment such as that when the whole of his realm might change, when the whole of the world might changed.

He pushed passed Miranda, who stepped away with a bow, and walked from the door to his chambers into the great opening outside. The caves opened into a mammoth cavern from which hung thousands of stalactites, all glistening with precious metals awaiting to be mined. A river of clear, clean water ran through the center of the cavern, sending echoes of running water bouncing from wall to wall. At the farthest end of the cavern, almost directly across from his door, rose from the ground a formation of crystal shaped into a basin ten times Orian's size. Within in it burned a blue fire.

A magical fire.

"The Moridunum Beacon is lit," he whispered, his voice unable to rise any louder. It did not need to; for, every goblin and orc within the great cavern was already staring in awe at the Beacon. They stared because it could only mean one thing.

From behind him, in a small, but confident voice, Miranda said, "A king has been found."

Orian only nodded. After so long, the House of Emrys had returned.

**A/N: Done.**


End file.
